


the original enemies of mankind

by nap_princess



Series: red-headed children of the sea [3]
Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), The Little Mermaid (1989)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car-owning Hans is my aesthetic, Gen, Modern AU, Suicidal Thoughts, Vroom vroom bitch, dead dove do not eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 14:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nap_princess/pseuds/nap_princess
Summary: Sometimes he reaches a new record. Sometimes he pretends like his hands are tied behind his back and that all he is capable of his sinking to the bottom of the pool floor– Hans and Ariel-centric, modern AU
Relationships: Hans & Ariel (Disney)
Series: red-headed children of the sea [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535564
Kudos: 8





	the original enemies of mankind

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Love Was Like The Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/531979) by Låpsley. 

> Notes 1: Modern AU of a friendship between a would-be admiral and a mermaid OR a bitter boy stuck on a dying island meets a visiting stranger. Also, I declare these Google searches some kind of fate.
> 
> Notes 2: I’m mostly basing Hans’ thoughts via **A Frozen Heart** book because when have I ever stopped using material from there?  
Though, the book does _deeply_ hurts me. It’s obvious that Hans is already miserable as it is but the book pretty much body slams you with his depressed and self-harming. I’m … familiar with reading dark material so writing in a similar manner is within my ‘range’l but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less. Diving into such a headspace is dangerous to me. I love angst, but at what cost, my dudes?

**the original enemies of mankind**

* * *

* * *

**i**

* * *

It was midnight.

He knows it was – _the **cursed** witching hour._

He remembers.

He remembers it _well _because he had glanced at the clock blinking in the darkness of his car before he had slammed his foot against the acceleration pedal, pushing to go faster _faster _**faster**. He was acting like a _maniac_.

(Or maybe a frightened boy trying to run away from something unavoidable?)

The speed he was going at would have frighten_ed many_ but could do little to satisfy him. His back was towards his little town and his front facing straight to nowhere, or maybe the ocean – there was a good chance he was going to drive off a cliff and plunge into the dark waves. Honestly, there’s no way off this bloody island that he’s grown to hate.

The storm brewing flashed blue. His shoulders squared, back pressed against his seat and his headlight filled the void.

It starts to rain, pelting bullets on the tops of his roof. He switches on his wipers, watching them move back and forth, and back and forth, _and back and forth _before he grows frustrated. His shaky hands grip against the steering wheel and he stops.

_He just stops_, tires screeching and rubber burning.

He got out of the car. Instantly, the storm engulfs him, and for a moment, he just stands there looking up at the grey sky as it cries, tears sliding down his cheeks.

He **dared**. He wanted God to take him, drown him, hit him with lightning. He wanted something in his miserable life to happen, some hint of fortune.

He waited.

Then waited.

And waited some more.

Rain fell into his eyes; striking him like knives, blinding him. But other than that, nothing happened.

.

.

.

He climbs the ladder of the barn with slippery hands. Below him, horses whine, either frightened _for him_ or simply frightened of the storm, not that he cared.

He hoped for _the worse_. Didn't fear for it though. Just hoped.

If he didn't slip and break his back then he hopes to die of pneumonia. A little dramatic, but when has he been anything but that?

As he collapses into stacks of golden hay, the sun rises.

.

.

.

He wakes up in spite of all that foolish_ wishing_ – still damned, still shivering, still breathing.

* * *

Humans are creatures of habit. He's seen some nasty habits **kill** – smoking, drinking, self-sabotage.

His is the addiction of drowning oneself. Not with a bottle, though he will say that he's been tempted (he never did like the bitter taste though). But, no, _no_, his habit is the act of drowning in plain sight. If he didn't smell like sweat and horses then he would smell like chlorine (and sea salt).

He _enjoys_ swimming. He _enjoys_ plunging into the deep and holding his breath until his limit breaks. There's something _thrilling_ about testing how far he can go.

Sometimes he reaches a new record. Sometimes he pretends like his hands are tied behind his back and that all he is capable of his sinking to the bottom of the pool floor.

.

.

.

The folks around here compliment him on the oddest thing; his fiery red hair, his dull freckles, his arms slicing through the water and the oxygen he keeps in his lungs when his chest screams for air.

He never understands it. Doesn’t plan to. But, he does thank them in his own little way – offering that rare dimpled smile of his – something the people often craved for and something he often gave away in return (just like everything else in his life).

The youth gather around him, the ones who have descended from fishermen and whalers and sealers, the ones that piqued in high school and start petty fights every other week because it beats anything else around the Isles of the South.

"Why don't we go explore that cove?" Someone says.

He isn’t paying attention to their chatter. He never does. But he says, "Dangerous stuff you're suggesting, the tides could drown us."

A girl reaches out, smacking him – lightly, _playfully_, probably liking the way his barrel chest feels against her greedy hands.

A boy to his left says something _offensive,_ something deep, _cutting._

It kills the little mood the redhead had and he forces himself to take a swing of his water bottle. He drinks, gulping down his frustration quietly – a trick his mother instilled in him when he was little. It was either that or to watch him cry.

(And after twelve other children, tears got a little old)

So he drowns himself and he never cries, and maybe that was what was_ wrong _with him. He _never_ learned what it was like to be emotionally ready and yet that dam is so close to breaking.

* * *

**ii**

* * *

Swimming is convenient when there is nothing to do, and never enough hands for anything so he gives and _gives_ and **gives**.

The swimming pool is not his favourite place. It's his second favourite place.

He likes the ocean best, sometimes he dreams of acquiring a boat and sailing far, far away and other times he dreams of high waves suffocating him and pulling him down under.

But, right now with the sound of seagulls and crashing waves, the sun against his face and an occasional breeze; simply _being_, floating without a direction is enough for him.

He had heard her before anything else. Her sweet singing, a voice like a siren luring sailors to their deaths, had forced him to the surface, brushing saltwater out of his eyes.

On any other occasion, he wouldn't have minded perishing in such a way, but _something_ in his chest pulled him. He had wanted a glimpse before vanishing.

And it's easy to see that she's new. This place doesn't let anybody escape without a price.

Her eyes greets him in a way others do not. The colour of the sea, a lovely blue-green.

He does not act gentlemanly, does not attempt any politeness, only regards her with a hostility the locals do.

"What are you doing in a crap town like this?" He asks, arms keeping him afloat.

"I'm visiting." She answers, smiling in a way he can't wrap his head around.

"Do you have a relative here?"

She considers him before replying, "No."

"Then?" He says like it's the only reasonable excuse to step foot on this cursed land.

"My band and I are hopping from town to town. I saw this little island and thought I would take the ferry and have a look -see." She explains.

He stares at her, _really stares_, before saying, “That’s nothing to do here. You've wasted your time."

"You think so? I thought it would be fun to cross 'explore a fishing town' off my bucket list before we heading off to a new destination." She says, hands on her hips.

He doesn't say anything back.

"If there's nothing to do –" She starts. "– then what exactly are you doing? You seem to be having a grand time."

He scoffs, though it looks like he's coughing into the waves, and says to her: "Drowning your demons is always fun," Be it by actually drowning or flooding his lungs.

* * *

There are _some_ things to do here.

His small town can't afford to keep shops open seven days a week, there just isn't enough demand. So the people opt for night markets on Mondays, little stalls opened and _celebrated_, everyone and their mothers come.

Iced fish, cut of meats, fresh vegetables and fruits are sold; home-cooked food, family recipes and baked goods are one of the small luxuries people looked forward to and shared.

Mondays are less hated, and maybe that fact soothes the loathing that ebbs in his heart because this town can't always be bad.

He hears her – again – before anything else, performing with a backdrop of musical instruments. The show isn't grand, and he only catches the end of the song before the crowd around the band claps – not just politely either.

When he pushes through the bodies and stands near enough, he sees that she's prepared. The girl and her band are handing out colourful fliers.

The brief outline and design are nothing special like everything else around in the South, but people flock to it regardless.

If he didn't think she was a siren before, then perhaps his second guess would have been a sea witch with the way she baited the willing.

Though, she looks too sweet to do any _real _harm. The way she plays with the bubble wand and the rainbow hue that lingered in them almost makes her look magic.

“You should come to the show,” She says when she hands him a flyer and he isn’t sure if she recognised him or if she's saying it for the sake of saying it.

He could have yanked back his hand or thrown wasted efforts into the nearest trash bin, but, instead, he clutched onto that stupid piece of paper like it was some sort of life-saver when it could have been nothing but a paper boat weathering against a stormy sea.

* * *

He came – because what else was there to do?

People he knew his _whole life_ showed up too, dressed in their best outfits to dance the night away, glow sticks in-hand. He thought they looked ridiculous, but he must be looking ridiculous too to be among them.

He wanted to sneer, think better of himself then hop back into his car and drive far, far away to drown himself again.

But then the make-shift stage light flickered and like the tide, a current of people sweeps him closer to the singing siren and he _could not_ escape.

.

.

.

It was something else – to be on stage, to see the forest of hands sway in the darkness, the flashing lights that blinded and shaded.

It was a moment she couldn't quite forget. But it was also a moment she couldn't step back into; only existing now.

.

.

.

Her music was something else, he had never heard anything like it. And at that exact moment, he understood those ghosts on the internet who declared so readily that they would follow a singer to the ends of the earth – because, he was certain that if she asked, he would follow her anywhere too. Even to hell and back.

* * *

**iii**

* * *

“How did you like the show?” She asks after she and her bandmates have packed all of their instruments and supplies and essentials into their travelling suitcases.

"It was …" He pauses, embarrassed.

She waits and he dodges the question.

"How did you think it went?" He asks back.

She shrugs, tossing her long red hair over her shoulder. "The idea is to promote our music but I just like performing."

"Are you so easily satisfied?"

"How can I not be? I'm doing what I love the most." She tells him.

He looks at her and realises _why_ he's so spellbound by her; she's someone whom he's always wanted to be – the spoiled child, the baby of the family who got away with everything. And he means _everything_. Lifestyle, career, clumsy choices.

"You don't like this island, do you?" She asks after a moment.

He scoffs as if it's an answer.

"Is there nothing here you love?" She asks.

He looks at her then remembers how he _had_ something. Someone, actually. He had only liked _one person_ in his entire life – she was a Winter lily; so sad but so beautiful.

"No." He says; sincerely, honestly because that lily-white girl had moved away from this place just like anybody who's considered lucky. A.K.A. not him.

"You know," She says – slowly – looking at his profile. "We look alike."

"Wow, I didn't think every ginger person could pass as siblings." He tells her sarcastically.

"You have no heart."

"I think you mean 'soul'," He corrects her, touching his cheek as if he could brush his freckles away.

There's an old saying, 'gingers have no souls'. He shouldn't believe in these tales, but there are times when he's looked into a mirror, at his own reflection, and wondered if it's true.

It would explain a lot; to why he feels like a soulless creature, wandering in limbo.

"You know what I mean." She says because that was true too.

It was like she was saying, 'You're miserable, come with me.'

He wonders how _she_ could be the first person to notice how much this town frustrates him and yet everybody else turns a blind eye.

"If you stay here, you'll be living like a goldfish stuck in a bowl."

_There_ – She had finally said it.

"So what?" He asks. "Do you want me to uproot my life and follow your little band? I can't play any instrument."

All his life, the things that he believed in, he's taught himself to call them his escapes. His trust for wanderlust is all in his head, he's _bound_ to this rocky edge.

"Can you drive then?" She asks him.

"What?"

"Can you drive fast? Or drive at all? The band often gets tired after several performances. There have been times we almost missed our slots because someone's driving like a grandma or someone falls asleep at the wheel and almost crashes the bus."

"I …" He trails off, thinking. "I can drive. I'm used to driving like a maniac and I'm used to pushing my limit."

"Have you ever crashed?"

"No." He says without missing a beat. "Never."

"We would need hands for techy-stage stuff too. You can learn. Are you willing to?"

"When you live in a place like this, you have to know how to do everything yourself." He tells her.

"So, you'll do it? You'll come with us?"

His eyes pulls towards the floor and their work out sneakers. "Why me?" He says almost quietly.

She eyes him with those sea green coloured eyes of hers, staring at him in a manner that said she recognised the worth within him.

"Why not? You've got nothing to lose, right? Give it a chance." She says and dusts herself before extending a hand towards him.

He yanks his gaze upwards and it feels like staring at the storm again, daring God to do something.

_You know what?_ He thinks, as he takes her hand, _I'm so damn tired of drowning. I'm going to swim._

* * *

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes 3: God I love this BROTP too much. My asexual ass is tired of writing bad romances to fit the norm.
> 
> – 5 November 2019


End file.
